Second Cousins
by miss selah
Summary: They really just don't care Peter Claire Cannon Incest fic


* * *

Second Cousins

* * *

He wasn't in a bar. It was a proprietorship where people went when they wanted to meet someone, like a lover or a mistress or a gangster, or if they really wanted to get drunk. There weren't waitress, or waitors, or bartenders – because _technically _it wasn't a bar.

He wasn't in a bar when he spotted her.

He hadn't seen her since that first night, nearly six months ago, when he had stopped Sylar from removing that pretty blonde hair from that pretty pale scalp.

Only her hair wasn't blond anymore. And her skin wasn't pale.

"You've certainly changed." Peter told her as he walked up to her, taking a stool at the table that wasn't a bar, and ordered a drink from the person who wasn't a bartender.

She looked over him, regarding him cooly. "You haven't."

He wasn't sure if that was an insult or a compliment, so he didn't take it as either.

"Ever meet a woman named Angela Petrelli?" She asked him in a voice that he doesn't recognize.

He looks over her, once, twice. She's a real cutie, even with her hair that soft chocolate color. _Especially _with her hair that soft chocolate color.

Her eyes are cutting in to him, so he nodds. "Yeah, I may have heard of her."

"She says were related."

Peter looked around, as if he could find the answer somewhere in this place that isn't really a bar. Running his hands through his hair, he laughs. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Claire shrugs. "I'm a minor, you know." She tells him, but her eyes tell him something different.

Her eyes _promise _him a night of slick bodies and soft sighs.

"No one cares here."

* * *

A few hours and many drinks later, they fell in to Peter's apartment, kissing and clawing and licking and nibbling at each other. The flesh, they both decided, was much more intoxicating than the booze.

"Please, Peter." She said against him. "We have to stop." She reinforced this by kissing him again.

"Why?" He asked, and pressed her against the bookcase. The shelves bit in to her back, but the pain was hardly recognizable. "Chicken?" His voice taunted her, toyed with her, and she nearly forgot her reasoning.

"You never answered my question." He was licking her neck now, with her legs wrapped around his waist, and he was pushing in to her, mocking the movements of sex.

"Didn't I?"

She couldn't remember anymore. His kisses caused what little remained of her barriers to disintegrate. She sighed with resignation and trembled with anticipation, turning her head to one side, craving the feel of Peter Petrelli's kisses against her neck. He released a shaky breath, and his mouth rose, hovering a bare inch above her skin. His hands sojourned, shaking, up the course of her thigh, taking her skirt with them. A shiver flew down her spine and she moaned his name.

"Peter."

She made a quiet sound and turned her head to look down at him. Her eyes glinted, and the gentle curve of her cheek and the line of her nose glowed pale white in the light of the night, but her hair, which was once so blonde, was darker than ever.

He loved it.

Slowly, she drew her arms around him and reached up, brushing the tips of her fingers across his chin, then to trace the outlines of his lips. With out thought, Peter turned his head to kiss her fingertips, which raced just out of his reach. She giggled from her vantage point, and he was reminded of how little she was.

"Is this your first time?"

She nodded.

"Is it okay?"

She nodded again.

Her caress moved onward, upward, across his cheek until she was gently combing his hair through her fingertips.

He closed his eyes, lost in the sensation. _Thank GOD I saved her. . . _he managed to hear the thought through the sound of his rushing blood. _Thank God we can do this. _When she traced the outline of his ear, he laid his hand on her wrist and stroked the naked length of her arm. Then, cupping her cheek in his palm. He reached up to brush his mouth across hers. She gave a tiny gasp at his play, and caught his lips with her own.

He buried his hands in her hair and gave her what she requested. His mouth moved in a carnal dance with hers, his kiss filled with every ounce of desire she had awakened within him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he carried her tiny body to his bed.

He laid her down, and she rose back up, pulling her shirt over her head as she did so. Her bra, a lacy scrap of red, was ripped from her body and lost somewhere in the world around them. The world that they didn't need. Both naked, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself against him rising off the matress.

He stroked the length of her spine, bringing up a hand to stop against the curve of her hip. Her skin felt every bit as wonderous and soft and full and feminine as he had imagined.

He kissed her cheek, her ear, then down to her neck until he was nuzzling at her clavical, just above the swell of her breasts. She moaned, arching against him in taunting pantomime of the joining they both craved.

"I think this is wrong." Claire giggle out. "Angela says that it's wrong."

"What does Angela know?" Peter said, toying with her nipples in between his teeth.

"So you do know her."

"I might."

"I thought you did."

After they were spent, he sat up in the night, and Claire only saw his back illuminated by the moon. "Peter?" Her voice was a question that she didn't feel comfortable asking. "Are we. . . are we related?"

Peter shrugged. "Maybe." He ran his fingers through his hair and lied through his teeth.

"Are you. . . are you really my Uncle?"

Peter laughed then, a rolling rich tone, as he lay back down with her. He cradled her in his arms and pressed his nose to her cheek. "Second cousins, _closest." _

They both knew it was a lie.

But neither one of them really cared.

"If you say so."

* * *


End file.
